The Spring at Moss Hill

by Carla Neggers

  Then it was out. The thought, the question. She couldn’t stop it.

  “Do you think Mark has security cameras in the hall?” she asked.

  “What?”

  And next thing, she had her feet back flat on the floor and was adjusting her jacket and shirt, askew from the mad kiss.

  She waved a hand. “Never mind.”

  “Small towns,” he muttered. “You know everyone.”

  “We could have...” She cleared her throat, realized her hair had fallen out of its clip. “Who knows where we were headed.”

  “I do. I was about to make love to you out here in the hall and kill your reputation in town, and who knows where else if there is a security camera and someone got hold—”

  “Let’s not go there.”

  He grinned. “Hell of a kiss.” He pushed strands of hair out of her face. “Let’s do that again soon.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “You bet.” He started down the hall to his apartment. “Be good.”

  Kylie didn’t breathe until she was inside, her door shut. She’d left a light on. A good thing, since she was only semicoherent.

  Rumors, Olivia, a tour of the beautiful McCaffrey home, a meal with other people for a third day in a row, champagne... Morwenna...a kiss...

  Not any kiss, either.

  She couldn’t deny she felt wobbly now.

  She sank into her chair at her worktable and switched on her task lamp. “Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock,” she said, then laughed—at herself, her crazy day, everything. Russ Colton knew she was Morwenna Mills, and it hadn’t changed a thing.

  Well, of course not.

  He was going back to his Beverly Hills law firm.

  Kylie got out a fresh sketch pad and a perfectly sharpened drawing pencil. It was on the late side for her to work, but she didn’t care.

  After Little Red Riding Hood, she would do Beauty and the Beast.

  She loved having that clarity. The decision was made.

  And she had a sudden inspiration for the beast.

  Tall, ex-military, scars...and a Hawaiian shirt, possibly one that included palm trees.

  * * *

  In the morning, Kylie looked at her quick sketches of her beast and threw them all away.

  The scars could work, and he’d be tall, but right now...

  She dug one out of the recycling bin and sighed at her scribbles. Right now he looked like a guy who’d wanted to make love to her until she’d mentioned security cameras.

  He even had Russ Colton’s thick brow.

  And the shirt was a dead giveaway.

  He needed to be Belle’s beast, not her beast.

  She tossed the sketch back into the bin and grabbed her car keys. She’d make a quick trip to the Swift River Country Store to stock up on supplies. She felt a few days of hibernation and decompression coming on.

  Russ’s car wasn’t in the parking lot. He’d be on his way by now, Kylie thought.

  She didn’t run into anyone she knew in town. When she got back to her apartment, she put a chicken in the oven, cut up a bunch of vegetables, threw together rice pilaf and washed salad greens.

  She stood with the refrigerator door open and surveyed her afternoon’s work, neatly wrapped and ready when she wanted it. She could get multiple meals out of her efforts.

  But she didn’t go straight to work. Instead she went out to her balcony. Warm from her marathon session in the kitchen, she welcomed the cool afternoon air. She pulled a clip out of her hair, remembering Russ’s touch as she watched her two ducks swoop low over the river. They stopped short of the dam, skidding into the quiet, deep water of the millpond.

  She’d called her agent and told her the jig was up on her keeping Morwenna secret. How will the people there take it?

  I don’t know.

  Doesn’t matter. I never thought you were long for that little town, anyway. I see you in a loft in Tribeca. You can afford it now.

  I like my life here.

  Trade-offs. I’m glad the cloak of mystery about Morwenna is finally off. We’ll make plans.

  Kylie put the clip in her jacket pocket and shook out her hair. She felt cooler, more in control of herself and her circumstances.

  Plans.

  To the increasing frustration of her agent and publisher, she’d turned down all invitations since the Badgers of Middle Branch had struck a chord with young readers. Book festivals, bookstores, libraries, professional conferences, meetings with Hollywood types—she always said no and stayed home and worked. In Morwenna’s early days, she’d attended a conference under her own name and hung out with her illustrator friends, but she’d felt uncomfortable with her secret identity. She hadn’t attended a conference since.

  Should I call you Morwenna now?

  Russ hadn’t seemed taken aback by her alter ego. He had to have dealt with real, dangerous treachery in his navy days, and with more volatile secrets than hers.

  Kylie licked her lips, as if he had kissed her seconds ago instead of last night.

  Or perhaps she’d kissed him. One of those chicken-and-egg things, maybe.

  But her attempt at lightheartedness didn’t quite take hold. She’d put her love life on hold when she’d moved to Knights Bridge. Not that it’d been rocking and rolling before that. Her Red Sox game with the irritable carpenter had been her one attempt at a date. It had been such a disaster, she’d been quite content putting off romance until she felt more settled and secure.

  Could she find a way to have a man in her life, with her work, her quirks?

  She didn’t know, but she was definitely attracted to one Russ Colton.

  She went back inside, made tea and returned to her worktable. She couldn’t wait to crawl into her creative cocoon. She liked it there, and if her attempt at a beast had been premature, she was ready to settle on her vision of Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf.

  Sixteen

  Russ got into LAX in the middle of the afternoon and was tired enough to think he’d misread the text he received on the Jetway.

  I’m here. I’ll pick you up at baggage claim. I’m in your Rover.

  It was Daphne Stewart’s number. Russ adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder. Why the hell was Daphne in his Rover, meeting him at the busy Los Angeles airport?

  He got out of the Jetway and texted her. On my way.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled open the passenger door of his Land Rover and spoke to Daphne across the seat. “I’ll drive,” he said, tossing his bag in back.

  “You’ve been on a plane all day.”

  “Exactly. I’m frayed. I can’t handle sitting while you drive.” He jerked a thumb at her. “Out, Daphne.”

  She rolled her eyes. “All right, all right.” She shifted into Neutral and pulled on the emergency brake. “Marty didn’t tell me it was a standard transmission. I’d have worn driving gloves. I’ve ruined my manicure.” She got out and came around to the passenger seat. “This thing hurts my back. Marty said it would.”

  Russ ignored her and took her place behind the wheel. A day on a plane after losing his mind and kissing Kylie Shaw/Morwenna Mills, and now Daphne Stewart driving his Rover. No wonder he was tense.

  “Marty had to work,” she said, buckling up. “I was going to hire you a car, but I bullied your brother into letting me drive the Rover. So kill me, not him.”

  “Okay.”

  She settled back. She wore flowered leggings with a long, dark red top, flat sandals and a ton of jewelry. “It’s a great vehicle. Very masculine. Reminds me of a Jeep my boyfriend had when I was a teenager. We’d go mud-bogging. That’s when you drive through mud off road.”

  Russ knew what mud-bogging was. “You were a teenager, and you weren’t in the city. Did you d
rive straight here from the bar?”

  “I didn’t go joy-riding, if that’s what you’re asking. I did stop at Sawyer & Sawyer, but it’s practically on the way.”

  “Why did you stop there?”

  “I had to sign something.” She waved a hand, dismissive. “The receptionist offered me tea. What’s her name?”

  “Julie.”

  “Julie, right. Tea. I don’t think she believed I had legitimate business. She was humoring me. Offering me tea means I’m a valued client but also a pest.”

  Russ grinned at her. “I’ll be damned, Daphne. You are more perceptive than I gave you credit for.”

  “You know I’m in my prime as a costume designer, don’t you? I’m not some washed-up, lonely diva in late middle age. I didn’t agree to do this master class to prove anything—to you or to anyone else.”

  “Who are you trying to convince?”

  “No one. I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. I don’t need confirmation that I still matter. I have more work than I can possibly handle.”

  “Did you have tea?”

  “No. Bastard.”

  She loved being teased, Russ thought, softening. The attention, the banter—the chance not to take herself, or be taken, too seriously. “Julie will be running Sawyer & Sawyer in five years.”

  “Three.” Daphne twitched in her seat, as if she couldn’t get comfortable. “It will be fun having you escort me to Knights Bridge now that I’ve talked myself out of weaseling out of going.”

  Russ made no comment. Traffic wasn’t too bad, but it wasn’t Knights Bridge.

  “I’m going to need a massage after sitting in these horrible seats this long. I’ve hired a car for us for our flight on Friday. I’m looking forward to staying at the Farm at Carriage Hill. Will my room have a four-poster bed? I’ve always wanted to sleep in one. No canopy. That would make me claustrophobic.”

  Russ looked at her as if she’d sprouted wings. “A four-poster— Daphne, what are you talking about?”

  “Do you know what a four-poster bed is?”

  He gave her a curt nod.

  “But you don’t care,” she said.

  “My point.”

  “When I lived in Knights Bridge, that house was a wreck.”

  “It’s not a wreck anymore,” Russ said. “You can take the loft apartment at Moss Hill if you decide you don’t want to stay there.”

  “I’d have to cook my own breakfast. I prefer to stay in separate quarters from where I’ll be giving the class. It’s three hours, you know. Ninety minutes in the morning and ninety minutes in the afternoon. We break for lunch. Ruby and Ava are working me to death.”

  The three-hour time frame had been Daphne’s idea, but Russ chose not to remind her.

  “And Moss Hill has ghosts I don’t care to meet,” she said, her tone quiet, serious. She sighed and stared out at the multiple lanes of traffic. “Old George—my great-great-grandfather—built the mill with his brother-in-law, the husband of his wife’s sister. He—the brother-in-law—bought George out after a few years. Or so the story goes. By all accounts they were good men. They were benefactors in the area.” Daphne was silent a moment. “But I don’t want to think about the past.”

  Russ slowed, edging into the right lane for his upcoming exit. It was dinnertime in Knights Bridge. Was Kylie eating alone with Sherlock Badger? He glanced at Daphne. “You’re in over your head with the O’Dunn twins, aren’t you?”

  “They appealed to the girl I used to be, with all her vulnerabilities, and to my better self, maybe—the experienced costume designer who wants to help those with the same hopes and dreams I had when I lived in Knights Bridge. I got caught up in their enthusiasm for all things film and theater.”

  “You were flattered by their interest in you.”

  “Their respect for me, too,” she said frankly. She swung around at him. “I’m not taking any money for this class, you know, and I’m paying my own expenses.”

  “That’s decent of you,” Russ said.

  “It’s a few days. And I’ve wanted to go back to Knights Bridge since my whirlwind visit in September. Or I thought I did. I can’t explain...” She turned back to her window. “I can do the class. It’s not the problem. It’s this theater that’s got me tied up in knots. We’d be building it from the ground up. Ava and Ruby say Moss Hill is a perfect space, but there’s so much to consider—and we don’t know if it’s available. The owner might have other ideas. Plus, it’s new. It must be expensive, at least by Knights Bridge standards.”

  Russ could see Daphne had been going over the pros and cons in her own mind. A penchant for French martinis aside, she was no one’s fool when it came to business. “Starting a theater, even a small one, would be a real commitment,” he said.

  “Ruby and Ava—you’d think I’d be inured to wild dreams, living and working out here.”

  “But you got caught up in this one.”

  “A small-town community-based theater.” Daphne shuddered, smoothing her hands over her thighs as if she’d seen a bunch of wrinkles in her top. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m afraid I led them on about my interest, my commitment.”

  “Nothing like a reality check,” Russ said, easing on to their exit.

  She shot him a look. “Are you suggesting that in reality I’m actually greedy and selfish?”

  “I’m saying maybe you tuned into Ava and Ruby’s hopes and dreams instead of your own.”

  “I deluded myself, in other words, and them, and now there’s no graceful way out of it.” She groaned, throwing up her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m getting myself worked up and taking it out on you. Ava and Ruby are operating on a wing and a prayer. They haven’t laid the groundwork for a theater in Knights Bridge. Community support has to be there. It just won’t work, Russ. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Then tell them. They could be getting cold feet about this theater, too.”

  “It’s not cold feet. It’s a frank assessment of the chances of success.”

  Russ didn’t want to argue with her. He wanted a beer, tacos and bed. “My point is,” he said, keeping any edge out of his voice, “maybe Ava and Ruby keep pursuing this thing because they don’t want to disappoint you, and here you are, worrying about disappointing them. You can handle this without upsetting them or doing something you don’t want to do. You care about them, and you’re enjoying helping them. Advise them from a stool at Marty’s or a lounge chair by your pool.” He navigated the maze of streets that she’d called home for forty years. “That’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

  She gave him a cool look. “You’re very sure of yourself. Quite the know-it-all, in fact.”

  “You’re annoyed because I’m right.”

  “A children’s theater would be a wonderful legacy. Maybe I’ll reconsider.”

  He could tell he’d gotten to her. “They can hang your portrait in the Moss Hill lobby with the straw-hat collection. Your great-great-grandfather gets the library and you—”

  “Just stop.”

  Russ grinned. “There’s a hat display at the library, too. Have you ever designed costumes with straw hats?”

  “A few. I remember meeting elderly women in Knights Bridge who’d been home workers in the latter years of the straw-hat industry. That was a tough job. Not everything was done in the factory. To think Moss Hill has a new lease on life...” She trailed off, staring out at the residential street as if reminding herself she was in Southern California and it wasn’t forty years ago in Knights Bridge. “I can donate money for a theater. I don’t have to be directly involved.”

  “Great. You can retire to Orcas Island or stay in Hollywood and go to lunch at the Polo Lounge with your friends.”

  “I hear condescension and disdain in your voice, Mr. Colton.”


  He gave an exaggerated yawn. “I’d have to be more interested in your dilemma for that.”

  “You really are a bastard,” she said with a laugh. “My dilemma doesn’t interest you?”

  “Let’s just say it’s not eliciting a lot of sympathy from me.”

  “You mean none.”

  “Correct.”

  “By the way, you can relax. I won’t talk all the way to Knights Bridge. I’m getting it out of my system now.”

  “Good.” He turned onto her street, pulled up to her sunshine-yellow bungalow. “By the way, do you know many people who take pseudonyms?”

  “Not as many as I used to. Why?”

  “I was thinking about how Debbie Sanderson became Daphne Stewart.” Which was true. But he’d also been thinking about how Kylie Shaw had become Morwenna Mills. “Never mind. Did you see Julius and Loretta before they headed to La Jolla?”

  “I did. I’m starting to feel a little lost.” She shifted to open her door but frowned at him, narrowing her green eyes. “There’s something...” She bit her lower lip. “I’m not going to lose you, too, am I?”

  “You’re a good friend, Daphne.”

  “Damn. Julius and Loretta. Now you and...it’s a woman, isn’t it? You’ve met someone?” But when Russ didn’t answer, Daphne swore under her breath and pushed open her door. “At this rate I’m going to have to join the garden club.”

  * * *

  After he dropped Daphne off, Russ drove straight to Marty’s Bar. It was early, but his brother was working, cleaning up and prepping while it was quiet. He dumped a bucket of ice into a container behind the bar and stood straight. “Russ. Brother. You look as if you’ve been on a plane all day. What are you drinking?”

  “Irish whiskey. Pick one.” He settled on a stool at the empty bar. “You let Daphne drive my Rover.”

  “She stole your keys when I had my back turned. I swear.”

  It was total BS. Marty’s sense of humor. “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Russ said.

  His brother got rid of his ice bucket and grabbed a bottle of Redbreast and a glass, his movements quick, sure. “She said driving your Rover was on her bucket list. I don’t believe she has a bucket list, but I went with it. How was Knights Bridge?”